All together now for St. Patrick

Going out last night was quite annoying: an English midlands town packed with English people wearing Guinness hats AS THOUGH IT WAS SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE. As the owner of an Irish passport, I celebrated by drinking real ales and going for a curry, as is traditional.

However, if you're wondering why that silly hat seemed appropriate, and why you feel so bad today, here's an Hibernian air to explain it all, with a catchy beat.

Hail Glorious St. Patrick

In honour of Ireland's national day, here's a snap I took at Birmingham's parade last year, which I think sums up the profound cultural resonance this event holds in the hearts of Hibernians the world over.

Begorrah

Happy St. Patrick's Day to you all. For the UK readers - today's your chance to forget about your shameful record of centuries of imperialist oppression and wear a green hat while drinking Guinness.

For the Irish of course, it's a special day, which means having a lot to drink. No, that can't be right… Last year's Birmingham parade included the Loneliest Man In The World: the guy bearing the banner of the Pioneers - the Catholic Temperance movement. I had to admire his optimism, surrounded by 50,000 people downing the black stuff.

The Spirit of St. Patrick

Despite the best efforts of the Pioneers, this is the true meaning of St. Pat's. Thanks to Emma for working out how to transfer them from a mobile phone.

Help me out?

My first-year students invited me to join them 'gay clubbing'. I can't work out whether that's homophobic, obscurely mocking me, or a genuine invitation (gracefully declined). Is gay clubbing like seal clubbing?

Happy St. Patrick's day, by the way.

Begorrah

It's been some weekend. On Saturday, the Map Twats went to Stafford and bought artisan cakes and ale, and oatcakes (proper Staffordshire ones mind, not those crunchy Scottish things), then went for a glorious walk on Cannock Chase, avoiding the doggers and visiting a barrow near the delighfully-named Milford. A quick pizza-break at Dan and Georgie's then on to Brewood for real ale to celebrate Phil's birthday, having witnessed some classic street theatre - teenagers being actually frog-marched by the scruffs of their necks for a secluded beating.

Come Sunday and it's off to Brum for St. Patrick's Day parading (not restricted to our Orange brethren). I went with Emma (from Limerick) and Neal. It was everything I hoped (and remembered from last year): ramshackle charm, as though the event was organised by Father Ted. The floats were all on loan from construction companies, reinforcing the preception that the Irish in Britain are all navvies. The music rarely strayed from the Dubliners' Greatest Hits, though some pipe bands were pretty good (silence greeted the West Midlands Police pipe band, unsurprisingly).

Best of all, the participants were a random collection of people who wanted to be in a parade. I didn't notice anything distinctively Irish about the stream of Volkswagen camper vans (Volk Music, anyone) or tractors, one featuring a stunt driver dressed as a priest. I did appreciate the irony of the Abstinence Pioneers of the Sacred Heart marching on St. Patrick's Day (though looking back, their banner didn't specify from what they were abstaining.

I loved it. Despite a sea of people waving and wearing the usual tat, there was a complete absence of irony or glamour. When the Celtic Tiger is officially declared extinct, we'll be left with the authenticity of red-faced men wearing Mayo or Galway GAA tops straining to control serious beer bellies, women dressed in dowdy, comfortable clothing and smoking furiously, all suspicious of glamour, style, fashion, and the activities of the jet-setting élite which has taken over the country. Celia Ahern, the Smurfit billions and U2 (tax-evading scum) can go feck themselves. This is the real Ireland (perfect illustration to follow when Emma sends me the photo I took on her mobile).